Good day to you, dear readers, and welcomed back, or welcome for the first time, to this story I have written. I'm the humble writer, hoping to give you a decent enough introduction to what comes now. Please, be kind, but determined. This is my first story, and I am experimenting and improvising along the way. This story is my first published one, not my first written one, and I hope it isn't the last one. Feedback will, always, be appreciated and hoped for, but I beg of you to be constructive and kind to me. Suggestions are welcomed, jokes and ideas dearly hoped for, and your enjoyment, my dutiful search. Please, take into consideration, that English is not my first language (even if I consider myself proficient in it), so I hope for a reprieve if you see something outrageous in matters of language.

The story is a crossover between A Song of Ice and Fire and Warhammer Fantasy Battles, with some slight mentions for inspiration, such as the Arthurian myths. Only Lord Amaranth is my own creation, and everything else is from their respective creators/authors.

For those of you that came here to re-read my re-write:

SORRY

It took way too long, I know. The changes… escalated out of control. Suddenly I was rethinking characters, names, plotlines, arcs and the main threat. I wanted to create more backstory, give a better past to some characters and alter aspects of the story. Magic took me three weeks… And, well, lest say I invested a few days reading and listening to all I could about Ashai and Old Valyria. That was more relevant than I thought it would be. And don't get me started with the GOD-DAMMED VAMPIRES. Yeah, I read a lot about Lahmia and the different bloodlines. It was inspiring. And angering, and horrifying, and much more. And it gave me horrifyingly good ideas.

A point of contention was, just how powerful a Grail Knight should be. Now, if we go by lore alone… They are fucking One Man armies. Literally, at that, like Grey Knights without power armor. Their skill is so over the top they can go toe to toe with Daemon Champions, and win. And some Greater Daemons…. So, I needed to balance that…. For a time. And I needed palpable threats for our main character in swordplay and skill, which, while complicated, wasn't too hard to find. I needed to rebalance some power levels. Let's just say that Ser Barristan "The Bold" Selmy, has earned his name.

I also had to do a little rework in character relationships, I also tried to give different personalities, traits, friendships and rivalries to the new additions to the Bretonnian side, as well, mind you, ways to get different factions to show up in manners and ways befitting of those factions…..

Yes, you very likely will get Lizardmen….. And Skaven.

I also decide to delve more into Westerosi magic of concept of magic. While Warhammer magic is well-developed and established…. Westeros has a more complex nuance in esoterically based arts. Plus, Asshai in Shadows is a weird place.

I revised the old Dragon vs Wyvern debate…. Which yes, means we are getting both. And I also played with the Bestiary of Warhammer to get ideas. There are WAY too many monsters in that thing. Thank the Lady I still had my Storms of Magic White Dwarf Issue somewhere.

Also… politics, because that seemed important, I wanted to handle them in a veritable way, and, let's just say, the shift in power we will see required some thinking in depth…..

(Also, writing Joffrey´s chapters made me want to puke… repeatedly)

Lastly… I developed a certain level of fascination with a westerosi song…. A particular one at that, which gave me a few ways to connect both worlds.

Also, for you, Targaryen Loyalist, I have prepared a certain… "gift" of sorts. Hope you enjoy it. It will take some time for it to appear, though. In the meantime, Throw a Coin to your Author.

I will be uploading the chapter one by one, and I have the second one closed to finish. I hope, this time, that actually means two weeks, not six months.

Now, answering comments:

Crazzytony: Hope you enjoy the new ones. No, this is not going that way... although there may be some Aegon treatment, Targaryen-marriage style. We will see. That was one of the points I had to revisit. But I will develop that more in the next uploads. Also, yes, without magick, massive amounts of faith, or some dammed miracle, you are not going to be taking out demons. I wanted to show just how... supernatural they could be.

Guest: All of them, but one.

The Last Kenpachi: Hm, Chaos tomfoolery, followed by possibly world-ending events, capable of leveling the galaxy in favor of the Dark Brothers, with heavy doses of Chaos, Anarchy, and Worthy Deaths? Yep, it's Gotrek´s kind of situation. And poor Felix´s too, I'm afraid. Then again, I didn't feel like sending a nuke right at the Lannister´s face right from the get-go. So, let's see how the Tides go and come. But rest assured, there will be plenty of things in need of... Slaying.

tsougrhs.59: Ashara isn´t that older than Stannis. The books lead us to believe she is around Ned´s age, but most women tended to marry older men in the setting and medieval history. Stannis is just a few years younger than Robert, so, while Ashara might be older, it would not be by much. In the books, Ashara is barely mentioned, with barely some comments about haunting purple eyes. The only one hinted at sleeping around, and then stated she did so, is Arianne. Lastly, from reading the books, and then watching the HBO series, it seemed to be like the Ironborn enjoy raping... everything, to be honest. They do it to a few men in the books (poor Maester) and some Bolton men almost raped Theon. So, seeing as the Ironborn are pirates, raiders, and general scumbags, raping a small child does not seem so out of place for such sick fucks. I also wanted to give a... certain warp-spawn tumor some... leverage to exploit. Lastly, yeah, I don't particularly care about numbers, just quality and if the readers enjoy it. I came to tell stories, write and enjoy myself in it. So, if you don't like it, I hope you find something you like, somewhere else. Good day.

Anyway, these are most of the changes I had cooked up, I will reveal more as time progresses, but I hope you boys and girls enjoy this as much as I will and feel free to speak your mind!

If you see any character handled in a particularly bad way, please, let me know. I'm new to this, so I will try my best.

Take care, keep your blades sharp, enjoy yourselves, and please, have a nice day.

'Normal speaking'

'Non-mortal speaking'

"Thoughts of mortals"

"Thought of non-mortals"

{DRAGON OF STARFALL}

The Tourney at King´s Landing, in celebration of the Crown Prince´s 16th name-day, would be the most glorious happening since the Tourney at Harrenhall, or so had promised Little Finger to King Robert a month before. He hadn't undersold the spectacle, although he did the cost of such an event.

Almost a hundred noble houses had come from every and all corners of the world, from Westeros and beyond, for such an event. From archery contests to melees, tournaments on strength, speed and jousting, commoners and nobles alike were given something to participate, or at the very least, look forward to. It gave as a result a massive deployment of carps, tents, improvised inns, and quite a lot of money, coming from one hand to another.

Eddard Stark had little taste for tournaments and even less for melees. He had always found it ridiculous, a pretentious play of war to sate bloodlust and inner demons. Nor that he lacked in one or other department, but he found it silly still. Sadly for him, his friend, King Robert Baratheon, found it extremely entertaining. He watched as rows of knights prepared themselves for combat, wearing a thousand different sigils and banners. He could even see a few Starks and of those from the North. Umber, Karstak, Glover, and even Bolton. He was only thankful for not having crossed paths with Roose Bolton. He was not in the mood for such a meeting. And what a meeting it would have been, with almost every noble from the whole 7 Kingdoms, and some from farther out even. He had seen men of dark skin that undoubtedly had to be from the Summer Islands, merchants in silks of Essos and Norvos, and even one or two groups sporting the harpy of Meeren. It left a strange taste in Ned´s mouth. The last time he had been in an affair of such proportions, he had begun to tread the path that took most of his family from him. It brought him no small amount of discomfort.

The arena was a circular opening filled with yellow sand, glittering under the midday sun, some 50 meters in diameter, with entrances for the fighters, the stands raised over a meter above it, giving a clear field of view for the nobility, and making the common folk able to see if they got close or above one another's shoulders. It wasn't as grand as the joust grounds, but the spectacle was on the fighters themselves, not the arena.

The Warden of the North sat with all his children, his wife and his bannermen, close to the King, as they waited. Rob and Jon were joking about who would win in a fight, while Bran was simply staring at the Kingsguard, enthralled by the white cloaks and the men who were wearing them. Sansa was talking with the Queen, to his dismay, and Arya had, yet again, disappeared from his sight, although he wasn't extremely worried. He knew that Jory was keeping an eye on her. Rickon was seating, half asleep on his wife´s lap, and said woman was now talking to the king himself, laughing at some old memory. The Hand of the King was, sadly, absent, as he had some matters of utter importance to attend to. Ned knew it was a forced excuse from his old mentor.

Jon Arryn didn't like tourneys, and he had a perfectly good reason for it. They cost massive amounts of coin, and as Hand of the King, it was his job to keep the kingdoms afloat. That, and his old mentor´s health had worsened a little in the few days they had spent at the capital. Ned wouldn´t have come hadn´t Robert asked him personally, and Ned knew why. He wanted her daughter to marry Joffrey. And Ned, against the judgment of his wife, was not amused by the idea. That, and he also missed the only man in the whole Realm that actually talked back to him. Coming had been a daunting task. Catelyn had encouraged it, stating that the lord of the North should mingle with the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, and Ned had seen the wisdom in her words. Diplomacy, as dreadful as it could be, was paramount in his duties. And while leaving Winterfell had been a complicated affair, especially with little Rickon, they had managed to arrive safely, and quickly too. Cat had been reluctant to bring all their children, but Ned wanted to keep his family close. The last time he had left them out of his sight, he had lost almost everyone he loved. So, leaving Benjen to fend for himself at Winterfell, he had ridden South, gathering his lords on the way.

'Well, by the fucking Seven Ned. Is that who I think it is?' Robert's half-drunk voice caught him by surprise. He looked at his friend, only to find the fat king completely baffled, eyes glued to something. Ned, to his misery, could only out of custom, respect, and curiosity, turn to watch what had brought such a reaction from his oldest friend. A part of him wished he had not, while the other couldn´t have been gladder.

The Martell had arrived with their bannermen.

But that wasn´t what had shocked the man some called the Usurper, no. What had caught him by surprise, as well as Ned, was the woman in purple and silver, more beautiful than a falling star in a moonlighted sky. Ashara Dayne walked side by side with Prince Doran, talking to the older man with a smile on her face, much similar to the one she had sported when they had first met, at that seven-accursed Tournament. And, not far away, the Hound waited patiently, in black and dark yellow, keeping a watchful eye on the Lady Paramount. Ned could not locate where Stannis was, although he reckoned he wouldn't be too far. When the couple left the confines of Dragonstone, or were in any place that wasn't Dorne, Stannis tended to keep close to his wife.

Ned´s stomach made a knot. He had not seen her since the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion, and they had not parted on good terms. And by that, Ned meant that the last time he had seen her, she was crying over her dead firstborn, after Balon Greyjoy had told them how his men had raped the boy, they had tortured him and then feed him to the sea and their Drowned God. Even now he could remember young Sirius´s smile and kind purple eyes. He was almost thankful to have that as a last memory of the boy, and not empty dead eyes. He looked at Caitlyn, searching for some comfort in his wife. He found it, in a reassuring smile. She knew very well what kind of man he was, and thus, she did not hold it against him. Lady Ashara had always been kind to her, so she saw no harm in letting her husband speak with the woman. In the past perhaps, she had felt envious of the Lady of Dragonstone. Now, she only felt the kind of kinship mothers felt.

'I'm afraid you are right Robert. If you would excuse me.' The Warden of the North rose, and began to walk towards the dornish, prepared for the worst, expecting as much. Prince Doran´s face was one of complete tranquility, a wise man who knew what he was doing, as well as what everyone else was doing. His brother, Oberyn Martell, on the other hand, had a charming smile on his face, yet his eyes spoke of thunder and blood. Ned couldn´t help but sympathize with the man. They had both lost a sister, and only Ned had found some closing, but he had also lost three nephews. He wondered for a moment if the man would ever be at peace, but by the look on his face, and how his eyes were fighting not to glare at Tywin Lannister, he could not help but doubt it. That man had taken from him two nephews and a sister. Balon had taken the other one.

'Prince Doran, Prince Oberyn, Lady Ashara it's a pleasure to see you. I hope your journey was swift.' Doran smiled a little more, a kind smile that held back a deceptively cunning mind. Ned want one to underestimate other men, but he wasn't sure he managed to grasp the whole person of Prince Doran. He was far more complex than Ned had at first guessed.

'It was Lord Stark, more than I expected. How fares the North?'

'It fares well enough if its Warden can come this far South.' Ashara´s voice caught him by surprise. It was relaxed, devoid of the latent hate it had adorned it the last time they had spoken. It made him nervous. It made him feel guilty.

'I was called by the King on urgent business, Lady Ashara. I would have loved to remain in the North with my family, but duty called.' Ashara´s smile dimmed a little. It still pained him to see it. She had lost a child and a brother, and he could not help but still feel guilty, all those years ago. He had taken one, and he couldn´t save the other.

'And a man of duty always answers, right?' Her eyes scanned his face, and he did not know what to do, how to act. So he simply nodded. Some light returned to her eyes; probably a memory from a better time, a happier place. She smiled yet again, a fake smile now; one put up to deal with the audience around them, and bowed slightly.

'It is good to see you again, Lord Stark.' She simply walked passed him. Eddard fought not to follow her, to apologize again. He would have lost that fight, hadn't Robert roared for the melee to begin. He looked towards where his family was sitting, then to Robert, and then he tried to find Ashara, but like that, the woman he had loved had vanished, leaving him with two men who either disliked or outright hated him, for various reasons, mainly because he had hurt the woman they had grown to call a sister. Doran simply smiled and directed his brother towards the stands, to sit next to his family, without uttering a single word, probably a show of self-restraint. Ned was thankful for it. He was not in the mood. But Prince Oberyn was less forgiving.

'We all have sins at our backs, Lord Stark. Try to make sure yours do not drown you too soon. My brother and I would like to watch, at the very least.' And with that, the Martells were gone.

Ashara fought tooth and nail not to cry. Not because of Ned, sweet Ned, who even after all she had said to him on that day, still felt guilty, not Ned, who had apologized about her brother, when his own sister had been taken from him but a few days prior. She was hurting because her sweet little Sirius had that same look when he saw her in pain, a worried but tranquil stare, which only four men had seemed capable of using. Two of those men were dead, one she had loved, and the other she loved and married.

Almost like answering her silent prayer, a strong, yet gentle hand took her own, as Stannis sat silently beside her. He did not say a thing; she did not need him to. His mere presence was like having the walls of Starfall rise around her, just like Arthur. She squeezed his hand, and he passed an arm behind her, bringing her in a still awkward-looking embrace for the second Baratheon, and a few tears escaped her eyes, although she could not help but giggle a little, at her husband´s still indecisive attitude in public. To others, it may look like a lack of love, but she knew that it was insecurity, and fear of not doing the right thing to help her, no malice in any of his movements.

'My lady,' Said a gruff voice. She lifted her eyes from her husband's lap, to stare right at Sandor Clegane, as he gave her a clean handkerchief, boarded in purple and silver. She smiled at her Loyal Hound.

'Thank you Sandor.' She said. The man nodded, a little embarrassed, but diligent nonetheless. Stannis nodded toward his knight, a silent thank and acknowledgment from his lord, before hugging his wife even closer. The Loyal Hound took two steps back, and stopped right behind the couple, not wishing to disturb them, but close enough to shield his lady from the unwanted stares of the Lannister seated not far behind. Someone patted him on the shoulder, and he turned to his right, seeing Ser Davos Seaworth and his oldest son, who were looking forward, eyes focused on the upcoming melee, and they were not alone, as several more Dayne men and Baratheon knights were also around him, his men, the Loyal Guardians of Dragonstone. Only then did Sandor realize that they were forming a semicircle around the Paramount´s family, protecting them from the looks and stares of the nearby nobility. Sandor did not smile. He hadn´t since the little star had died. But he allowed himself to stand a little straighter.

'Mother?' asked a small voice, and Ashara turned to look at her younger child, her daughter Shireen, who looked extremely worried.

'Are you sad, mother?' She smiled at her between the tears and the pain.

'Yes sweetie, just a little.' She lifted her up and seated her in between her and Stannis. Her husband made no comment, but he began to caress their daughter´s hair, just like she loved. There was certain… apprehension in the way the lord of Dragonstone treated his daughter. The Greyscale had deformed half of Shireen's face, and while her eyes shone with all the kindness and love of a child, the many pains, comments and looks she had received in her short life had deformed the innocence into a certain degree of wariness. And sharpness. What she had lost in looks, she had gained in quick wit and capabilities of observation.

Stannis took … a rather brutal solution to those that made comments on his daughter´s fate. Sending Sandor tended to solve things, may it be by fear, or by a duel, and where Sandor´s fury didn't avail much, the Onion Knight deal with it quickly enough. Ashara employed other means for it, those being both Arthur and Berric. Her son has taken the duty of defending his sister long before Ashara gave him official permission for it. A few broken noses had availed little, but her sister´s undying love.

Still, there was a reason Ashara kept three maesters in Dragonstone. She had lost one son, and almost a daughter. No healing art would be out of their reach now. And that same reason applied to Stannis's strengthening of the guard.

'Are you thinking about big brother?' Her smile cracked a little. Her daughter might not have been the prettiest girl in the world, not with her Greyscale, but she was kind and sharp. 'I miss him too. I think he would have fought today. Do you think he would have, father?-'

Stannis didn't answer for a second, and for a moment Ashara thought he had not heard her daughter. Only the tension of his jaw gave away that he was, in fact, listening

'No, Shireen, he would not have fought in the melee.' Their daughter nodded, a little sad at that. Ashara stroked her hair, knowing full well the dislike his husband held for tourneys such as this, as to him, they were pompous events, made to quell the desire for blood and the thirst for glory many young men felt. Sirius had been so similar in that way, dreading the violence and thirst for blood most people displayed. He had been a kind soul.

'He would have won, though, if you had asked him to.' And her daughter smiled, bright like a shining star, and Ashara saw the slight twinkle in Stannis's eyes at that smile, a hidden pleasure of her, to unravel her husband´s silent looks and dour faces.

'Oh, he would have, little lady. He would have.' Said Davos with a small smile.

'He would have Shireen, he would have beaten them all, even Ser Barristan' The voice came from a young boy, their second son, Arthur Baratheon, a young boy with his father´s eyes and his mother's hair and looks. He had idolized his brother, and Joffrey had loved to tell him as such, insulting and mocking him, which had caused great strife between the King´s family and the Paramount's family. Ashara did not blame Robert for it, of course. He had sailed the moment he had learned of the kidnapping of his nephew. He had other crimes to pin on him, plenty of them.

Where Sirius had been calm and collected, Arthur could be brash. Where Sirius hesitated to break the rules, Arthur barely thought about it. The young man sat beside them both, silver hair shining, those deep stormy eyes glancing among combatants in a bored manner. He was searching for something Ashara could not pinpoint. While their personalities had been different, Ashara could see parallels among both her sons. Both were angered most when harm was directed at those they loved, and when unleashed, they didn't know when or even how to stop. She had seen Arthur lose his composure many times. With Sirius, only one. It sent a shiver down her back, to remember her little boy losing all calm and care, and throwing himself like a berserker desert lion, punching and clawing, more an animal than a child. It had taken two men to pry him from Malwyn Frey when he had made several comments, both about Ashara and Arianne. Normally, Arianne would just ignore such insults, but those being directed at her mother had made the princess of Dorne cry. Which had been an awful mistake. The young man had almost lost an eye, part of his right ear, and had sported a few broken ribs.

Shireen smiled at her older brother, before focusing on the melee. And with the roaring of a drunken king, the uproar of the people, and the sound of a hundred blades being drawn, it began. Sides meet, teams were formed, knights issued challenges and champions roared battle-cries. Old rivalries flowed to the surface like molten magma, as Reachman and Dornish slammed into each other. Stormlanders and Notheners attacked Westernlanders, and many hedge knights and free swords searched for easy takedowns. But several combatants stole the spectacle.

Gilded in silver and green, an armor so beautiful one may hesitate to strike it, the Flower Knight fought under the cheers of a thousand maidens and the lords and ladies of the Reach. Ned couldn´t help but groan at the sight of her eldest daughter cheering the flamboyant knight onwards, to the chagrin of his wife. Arya scoffed, her interest piqued by Ser Thoros of Myr and his flaming blade, as he fought back-to-back with Ser Berric Dondarrion. The Knight of Flowers advanced, taking down a Dornish and a Westerlander, before his blade meet that of another renowned knight, although with a much darker reputation. And dark he was, in armor and looks, as the Darkstar, Gerold Dayne, pushed forward to meet the Reachman in a hail of strikes, both men desperately trying to top the other. Their battle was epic, but eclipsed by the show that Ser Barrsitan Selmy was giving the public. Both he and Ser Jaime were a white tornado of steel, taking knights by scores. Ser Devan Lannister was locked in a furious contest with Ser Robar Royce, the man of the Vale more than a match for the Laughing Lion.

Ashara found herself more concerned with Ser Beric and Thoros than her own cousin, and not only because Beric was married to her little sister Allyria, but because they were good men, and good friends. Beric had lost an eye when he had tried to save her son, and had Thoros not saved him, he would have died there and then. In homage to her son, and to remind himself of his failed attempt to save him, he had marked in his shield from that day a great silver star among the smaller ones, one that he made sure anyone could see, a reminder of his nephew. Gerold, on the other hand, she cared little for his poison-filed cousin.

'Looks like Beric is putting on quite the show.' She told her husband. Stannis nodded.

'He and Thoros make an effective duo. They might win if they keep like that.' She smiled, and the smile grew a few times when she heard the disgruntled groan of Clegane.

'Seven Above, I hope not. They won't shut up about it if they do.' Shireen laughed and Arthur smiled at the comment of the Loyal Hound. In the years since the younger Clegane had joined the Court of Dragonstone, the man had retained all his bite, bark and fury, but placed in an environment much less toxic than that of King´s Landing, some of the venom in the Hound had been lost. He was particularly fond of Lady Ashara and her children. He had never treated Shireen any differently because of her scars, seeing the parallel in between them, and Arthur was a much less collected version of lord Stannis, and Sandor had found no trouble bonding with the young man. And he respected Stannis, deeply. The man was fair. Merciless, yes, but utterly fair, and Sandor was more than happy with that treatment. Every man close to the King´s brother was there because they had earned it. And his loyalty had earned him the duty of leading the family´s personal guards, both the Stag Knights and the Dawnblades.

Jaime found he was actually rather enjoying himself. He had hoped to put on a good show, but when Ser Barristan had suggested teaming up, he could not have been happier. The Bold and the Kingslayer made a terrible duo, and their foes were paying the price. He blocked two strikes of a Karstak and then took down a Glover knight, fast enough to cover Selmy from a furious Fossoway, who Ser Barristan dispatched in two strikes. He knew both his siblings and his father were looking at him, even if only Tyrion bother to cheer for him.

The melee was booming more ferocious by the second, and more and more combatants fell. And as such, the common folk cheered and roared, uniting their noise to that of the lord and ladies who were also watching. And so, no one noticed the small tear in reality, the breach in the fabric of the World itself. The small breach seemed to float above the battle, high enough for it to make no difference in the outcome, insignificant in the great scale of things. It would have sewn itself shut soon enough, had it not been connected to a much darker place, with a much darker battle, under a darker, dead sky.

{DRAGON OF STARFALL}

He saw the Terrorgeist burn under the star dragon´s fire, its harrowing scream almost making him lose his step, which would have been a horrible thing at that moment. He raised his borrowed blade and stopped the blow before it cut him in half, a second too slow to sunder his armor into scrap metal. It still sent him reeling backward, smashing against the dark stone and loose mortar. Pushing back, he ducked the follow-up blow, and slammed his heather shield on the un-helmeted face of his opponent, breaking jaw and teeth with the edge of his shield, the emblazoned snarling orange dragon on the black field almost gloating in the blood that now covered it. The next strike separated the head from the body in a shower of dark blood. But he was running before the body began to dissipate into dust.

'Lord Amaranth!' The voice cut through the roar of battle, and he turned to find 5 more of his brethren, their bodies shining with holy might, as they cut their way through the lesser minions, their mere presence making the exposed bones and rotten flesh collapse into cleansing flame. 'The Lionhearted sent us to assist you!'

'Lord Beubouront!' He greeted back, blade cutting in golden light, the reanimated bodies in his way no more than a nuisance, and a waste of time 'Let none say that parravonians lack ferocity, or good timing!'

The other blessed knight laughed at the jape, before smashing the head of a particular big walking corpse with his blade. And as one, the half dozen Grail Knights shattered the tide, advancing towards where the summit of dark energies was reaching its apex. For a moment, the foe stopped, and the knights sprinted forwards, as Lord Amaranth overlooked the battlefield below. Castle Drakenhoff was as massive as it was intimidating. And now, it was full of both living, dead, and undead.

Beneath its decrepit skeleton, it felt as if every grave in this forgotten world had been emptied. Thousands upon thousands of undead guarded the entrance to the castle, filling every hole and gap in its defenses with more bodies than the attackers could send back to Morr. And among the unholy sea, rose monsters of the night, like nightmares given form. Waves of white crypt ghouls, not real undead, swarmed the lines of attackers, tearing men, elves and dwarfs apart with hungering abandon. Crypt Horrors became breathing hammers again the ranks of Order, smashing anyone and anything apart with furious abandon. Where they failed, Vargheist landed to rip and tear, and feast in flesh and blood, followed suit by rows of unflinching Grave Guard and the towering beasts known as Vargfuls. Carts filled with corpses or with strange and unholy stones advanced, reinforcing the lines of the undead, as specters, wraiths and banshees kept the blood flowing, slaying left and right.

At the right flank, Knights Errant smashed down ranks after ranks of corpses, only to find the tide unending and being torn down from their saddles and butchered, may it be by small blades or decrepit hands. Where their youthful fury saw them doomed, Questing Knights and Knights of the Realm advanced dauntless, pulling circular charges so as to not lose their momentum right in the heart of the enemy. Ranks after ranks of men-at-arms and longbowmen held the foe at bay, as they slowly advanced, arrows falling like discarded feathers into an uncaring ocean. Where the fight was thickest, dismounted knight rallied the peasant warriors, fighting as the tip of the spear. Lords of Northern Bretonnia let loose barrages of deadly and blessed white-feather arrows, as field trebuchets continued their bombardment, having no lack of ammunition in the rubble of the cursed castle.

The center was held by the Sons of the Heldenhammer, as ranks of state troops kept a steady advance, arrows, crossbow bolts and bullets raining from above, followed suit by a dozen types of artillery projectiles. The superior firepower of the Empire of Sigmar was their crowning advantage, mortar shells tearing ranks apart, as the crew of great cannons targeted the biggest of beasts. He saw the crew of what he could guess was The Hammer of Witches shot a rampaging Vargful down, taking its head off. The shell bounced right into a Copse Cart, some twenty meters into the keep, smashing it into splinters of rotten wood and flesh. A moment later, the remains of said cart burned under a barrage of Hellstorm rockets, with anything undead in a dozen-meter radius.

The Hosts of Ulthuan darkened the skies with their cousins of Athel Loren, clouds of arrows felling the biggest of the beasts, and the flying abominations of the enemy found their already damaged bodies filled with magically imbued projectiles. And if that failed, the Eagle Claw Bolt throwers made sure to dissuade them, tearing deep holes in the abominations, or saturating whole enemy position with massive amounts of ammunition. Lines of elven spearmen and elite forces, like wardancers, or Swordmasters of Hoeth, churned bodies to bloody parts and shattered carcasses. At the center of the maelstrom, the Fenix Guard formed the tip of the spear, advancing dauntless and as silent, as the bodies they slew with masterful prowess. At the head of the flaming battalion, Caradryan of the Flame killed the lesser vampires that sought to dull their advance.

Not to be outshined by their island cousins, the warriors of Athel Loren moved like a wild pack of wolves against the silverine host of the ulthuani. The kin of the forest, lumbering beings of natural energy and moving wood, barreled through the force of Death, as packs of wild beasts advanced, a sea of fur and claws that met one of decay and bones in brutal combat. Wild Riders of Kurnous trampled foes under their feet, as the beautiful dance of the elven warriors out speed and outflanked any attempt of the undead. If only such kind of tactics worked against such a tide, the battle would have been won long ago.

And in the left flank, stout line after unbreakable phalanx of the kin of Grungni and Grimmir held, and pushed back the undead. Lines of Longbeards marched forth, the wisest and strongest of their kin, supporting the undying frontline of Ironbreakers, backed up by Hammerers, who exploited the weak points in the enemy advance to enact swift and brutal retribution, for the Vampire Counts of Sylvannia had many and terrible entries on the Book of Grudges. This unbreakable line of warriors was supported by dense Quarreler and Thunderer fire, the flashes of the detonations of dwarven Cannons and Organ Guns, the sound of Grudgethrowers and Bolt Throwers, and the brutal shine of Flame Cannons. Where the greatest of monsters sought to break through the lines of the dwarves, massed Irondrake fire, or Slayer's fury deal with said threats, as the Gyrocopters of the Sons of the Mountains aided the bretonnian Hippogryph and Pegasus Knights, the elven Skycutters and Great Eagles achieve air superiority against the flying beasts.

It was obvious to any onlookers, as limited as their knowledge in the art of war could be, that the forces of Order would prevail in the field of battle, but that wasn't what worried the Grail Knight. There was a reason no magic support was being casted from the lines of Order, nor Runesmith´s help being received. At the highest point of the skeletal fortress, some kind of unholy ritual was taking place, the likes of which he hadn't seen in his long life. There was something foul in the air, something that went even beyond mere necromancy. And it made fear dance at his feet.

The phalanx of Grail Knights ran forwards, advancing through the narrow pathways and bridges of the accursed bastion. Amaranth was certain the enemy was using magic to try to lead them astray, for the very stone in their path seemed to shift and change, corners twist and corridors vanish and appear from nothingness. The trick to the illusion was in the moving shadows, the lack of them, or the strange shapes they took. Ulgu was a dangerous magic, a trick of the mind and senses. But the blessing of the Lady, and the guiding hand on his shoulder, allowed him to lead his brethren forth. After a few minutes, they reached the final ascent, a massive staircase of bone-white steps that led them to the summit. Black lighting fell in complicated patterns around the summit, and whatever lay in there, was beyond their sight. The oppressive sensation on their soul only increased as they advanced.

'We need to stop whatever unholy ritual they are attempting to bring to fruition!' Roared one of the knights, Axien D´Veofort, as his twin, Maldebon, nodded his agreement, both men draped in red and purple, a white Pegasus and a golden grail shining on their chest. The twins were fabulous warriors, as were all Knights blessed by the Grail, but their fury was unleashed as it best when they fought back to back. Amaranth nodded at this, as they began to ascend the staircase, every fiber in his being on full alert. He wasn't naïve, stupid, or hopeful enough to believe that the enemy would leave the entry to their greatest piece in the table unguarded.

Now that they were upon the stairs, he noted, with muted dread, that the stairs were indeed made of pure bone, grinded and stacked to form the steps to the summit. It might have shaken other lesser warriors, but for the knights, it only gave more fire for the fires of righteous fury in their hearts. More sins to avenge, more wrongs to set right.

Just as they began to think that the enemy might have thought them lost in the maze of corridors behind them, the dreadful screech above them, told them they were in fact wrong. Amaranth barely saw it, perched on one of the higher towers, black fur against the black sky and the black stone. The mass of mutated muscle and killing frenzy landed among them, their senses dulled by the dark magic choking the air. It was big, a massive winged beast, razor-sharp teeth and claws shining under the glint of fresh blood, like a demonic and massive bat. The Varghulf took them by surprise, but against 6 Grail knights, it would not be enough. It landed among them, the ground cracking and trembling, steps vanishing into white dust, as the beast roared a deafening roar, before charging the closer of the knights.

Axien dogged the mouth full of blood-soaked teeth, before slamming his shield against the beast´s deformed face. The fight was quick but brutal. Even with its terrifying strength, it could do little against the fury of six Grail Knights. It died when Lord Beubouront impaled his blade on its head, the tip coming out of its mouth, covered in unholy blood. Its massive weight fell upon the bridge, rolling down the steps.

It hid the attack of the second one.

In barely a blink, it bit down on Axien, the bretonnian roaring in pain, but never stopping his strikes against the beast. His twin, bellowing furiously, proceeded to strike with his hammer again and again against the beast's chest, breaking bones and ribs as twigs. Amaranth plunged his blade in its chest, holy flames eating at the innards of the beast, burning from the inside with a foul smell. It kept its grip on the knight, its blood-crazed strength going beyond what beasts of such size should have been capable of.

He felt the blood of his friend run down his neck as it drained from his still-fighting body. He felt the rage, the sorrow, the anger. He felt the many losses of the last days. He felt uselessness, unworthiness, rage, and emptiness. he felt the failure deep in his heart, the uncertainty of not knowing if he had done the right thing. If he had done anything at all.

He felt fury. He felt the Dragon´s Choler.

With a roar like a collapsing mountain, the knight of the Dawning Dragon let go of his blade and grabbed with one hand the wing of the beast, and with the other, its mutated shoulder. And pulled. With all his might, all that anger and hate, all the loss and wrath, he pulled one from the other, mighty gauntlets grabbing and breaking through the desiccated flesh, skin crumbling like weak and dried bread, feeling his fingers touch bone and muscle. And he kept pulling apart, the creature's body trying to heal the damage. The other knights kept on fighting, distracting the beast and keeping it preoccupied until the pain of its left wing grew too much to ignore under the haze of its bloodlust and animalistic hunger. Like floodgates, the Dragonhearted's arms opened, and with them came the sound of leathery skin tearing and bone shattering under massive strain. The Winds roared in his ears, like a maelstrom, a sweeping storm that brought strength to tired limbs and a tattered soul.

And then, he pulled the wing from its socket in a shower of mutated gore.

The Varghulf roared in pain, dropping Axein in a puddle of his own blood. Rising on his hind legs, the howl of anguish was cut short when Beubouront climbed it back and cut its head from its shoulder in a swift strike.

{DRAGON OF STARFALL}

Robar Royce managed to disengage Devan, but was assaulted by a Redwyne and a Fowler, although they were fighting each other as much as him. He managed to take both of them down, only to curse in every language he knew when he saw someone else charging right at him. And then, he realized it was the Mountain.

-Shit- He whispered. The older Clegane lifted his greatsword for a crushing strike, only to change the direction of the blow at the last second when Thoros came extremely close to cutting his arm off. Ser Beric Dondarrion followed suit, both men surrounding the bigger, but not greater man, in a prison of flashing steel. Robar blinked twice, before joining both men in taking down that poor excuse for a knight.

{DRAGON OF STARFALL}

Axien was dying. Whatever poison the beast had coated his fangs with, was killing him, and while such a thing would be a nimiety for a Grail Knight, the overpowering and all-encompassing miasma of the Winds of Shyish was fighting the Gifts of the Lady. He wouldn´t die fast, painlessly, or even without a fight, but unless they stopped the ritual, or got him out of the castle, he would die. And Amaranth wasn't sure he would be able to pull any of those two miracles before they were overrun by the clanking noise of rotten flesh and clean bones he would hear ascending the many stairs and corridors of the castle. They had been followed, and their pursuers were about to catch up with them.

The man´s breathing was labored and ragged, as he supported himself on his twin. The blood flowed freely, shining brighter than any other, laced with stripes of gold and white, and it scorched the cursed ground where it touched it.

'Well, that hurt a bit more than I expected.' Joked the knight, earning a chuckle from the other knights. But such mirth was only to hide the fact they all knew how badly injured he was.

'Do not fret, brother. We will get you out of here.' Maldebon said, grabbing his twin by the shoulder and hauling him to his feet, blade drawn. Axien chuckled, punching his brother slightly in the chest.

'I love you to death, you absolute dunce, but we both know I am not going anywhere.' Amaranth couldn´t see Maldebon´s face, but he could picture it perfectly well. He had sported a similar face in the past. That rictus of dread, uselessness, and denial, followed swiftly by grim understanding.

'Axien…' Began the brother that had taken down a Keeper of Secrets during the Battle of the Cursed Crown by Amaranth´s side, who had killed more than a dozen Skaven warlords and managed to help rout four different Waaghs.

'I cannot follow you without slowing you down, and against what lurks up there, I won´t be useful. But I can hold these steps.' Axien growled, steading his own footing, and grabbing his war hammer with one shaking hand. He turned towards Beubouront and stared at him from beneath his beautiful unicorn-crested helm 'I can be your shield today, Gio, one last time.'

'Axien. You will not survive.' Beubouront told him. The other man shrugged.

'Your point, Gio? We are Grail Knights, our lives were forfeited the moment we chose to drink from the Grail, and I don't regret it in the slightest.' He proclaimed proudly. A second after that, Maldebon´s posture changed, and taking a step beside his brother, spoke.

'He is right. Whatever awaits you at the summit, you will have to face alone, my Lord.' Amaranth's jaw tightened at that. Two friends more he was going to lose that day. Beloved Goddess, grant me strength please, he thought. Axien rounded on his win like a cooling serpent.

'No, Mal, I will not drag father´s line…!' The rant was cut short by Maldebon grasping his shoulder, hard.

'We took our first breath together. We drank from the Grail together. Side by side, I promised mother that when we left, and side by side we lived. If this is where our blessing shall be spent, where our hearts stoped betting, where we will die, let it be so, together.' He proclaimed, and every other knight felt a spark of pride in them at the devotion the two brothers professed each other. They were true Knights of the Grail, and it was an honor to have met them.

'You obstinate cunt.' Axien growled, before letting a small chuckle escape him 'Side by side, once last time.'

Amaranth watched as Axien grasped his brother´s shoulder in return, and then turned to him. There were a thousand things that went unsaid between the knights. But there was no time, or need for them to be said. He extended a hand, and Axien grabbed it by the wrist in a warrior´s salute.

'Go, Lord Amaranth. Go, and do what you do best, kill whatever monster they are calling so eagerly for. We will hold these stairs, and kill any and every son of a whore that tries to follow you in.' Amaranth nodded, and the other knight gave their farewells as well.

'When we get to the Gardens to see your sorry arses' Spoke the fifth member of the group, Lilliane Du Verroque 'You better tell me you covered the bridge in their bodies,'

Axien laughed and hugged his friend, and Lilliane seemed to push back a sob. It was strange to see a Grail Knight cry, but in so many years, Amaranth had witnessed many instances. They were above mortal men, but men they remained. They loved, they hated, they lost and gained. And while they had an unnatural resilience to such occurrences, and the Lady´s comfort was great, it still marked them.

'I'll miss winning all our bets.' Loui Du L´Atone said, his tone somber as he grasped Mal´s arm. The other knight nodded slowly, before pulling him for a hug.

'Seem I win this last one, old friend.' Mal said, chuckling

'I wouldn´t have minded losing this one.'

'I know.' Said Mal, a sad light in his eyes.

'May she watch over you, my friends. I will see you on the other side.' The Knight of the Dawning Dragon spoke bowing his head in respect to his fellow knights.

'Not too soon I hope, my lord Amaranth. Children shouldn't bury their parents so soon, nor wives their husbands.' Said Maldebon with a laugh 'Also, you would hog all the attention on Her Gardens!'

'Give them fury, D´Veofort . Dawn´s Wrath, Morningstar's Fury.' Amaranth said with a grim, yet determined tone.

'When we get up there, we will tell the pale son of a bitch we are going to kill that D´Veofort blood barred these steps, and none passed. Words of Honor, Words of Duty!' Said Beubouront.

At that moment, the first of the foes began to sip from the labyrinthine corridors that led to the bridge and the stairs. Waves of animated skeletons, moving in unison, like an airy of puppets, followed by a sea of rotten zombies and a small sea of white and gaunt ghouls, all of this spilled forth like water from a rotten dam. And among their ranks, moved the red-clad warriors, inhuman in their movements and looks. Blood Knight of the Blood Dragons, scions, and worshippers of Abhorash.

'Oh, this will make for a magnificent song.' Axien laughed, before nodding toward the rest of the knights. And as one, both knights advanced on the horde, wading into them like a tornado of holy wrath and blessed steel. It took a massive effort for Amaranth to not jump to their aid, every bond and instinct of 3 centuries of service begging him to aid his brethren. But duty called, and he would have to answer.

The knight of the Dawning Dragon didn't see his friends clash with the undead hordes. He didn't get to see them fight to their last breath, to kill them by droves, to shine with a last act of chivalry and defiance against impending doom, roaring their vows to the winds, brothers, side by side, covered in blood, like the first time they had taken a breath, a shining light in the ever-consuming darkness. He didn't see them fall atop of a pile of rotten and broken flesh dolls, their blade deep in the bodies of Blood Knights that would join the small pile of the vampiric knights they had slaughtered already. He didn't get to see them die.

But he would get a chance to avenge them.

{DRAGON OF STARFALL}

With every drop of blood, the tear grew in size and power, as it began to feed on itself, forming a small black point of wrongness in the air.

'Father, what is that?' Ned looked at Bran and then followed his stare and pointing finger, barely making out the small black point above the combatants. Caitlyn squinted, trying to see it too.

'What in the Seven Hells?' Whispered Jon, the grip on his blade beaconing tighter, as he and Rob took a step back, surrounding Sansa, acting on instinct. Ned did not know what it was, but the sensation that now was traveling his back made him act.

It was terror.

{DRAGON OF STARFALL}

'I can taste… death in the air.' Said Lilliane 'What madness are they attempting here?'

The four Grail Knights reached the summit without barely any complications thanks to the sacrifices of their friends. And when they reached the top, they had the breath sucked from their lungs.

Atop that unholy tower, magic took physical form. The Winds of Death soared high and strong, purple light ululating into existence, converging into a Maelstrom that focused on a single point in the middle of the summit. Souls screeched and tried to escape the tornado, some, harnessed over centuries, others, fresh from the killing grounds beneath their feet. Thousands of faces swirled so fast one couldn´t begin to describe them. But they all shared one common feature, the horror in their eyes.

'Is that a sarcophagus?' Asked Loui, pointing at the large, almost rectangular object in the center of the summit, where all the purple energy was being siphoned. It was a strange thing, a coffin yes, but mixed with elements of the nehekharan sarcophagus they had all seen during the Errantry Wars into the Deserts of Nehekhara.

'What are they doing? Trying to empower a vampire?' Questioned Beubouront, eying the rest of the summit carefully. It was a big esplanade of dark stone bricks, eaten by time and darkness by centuries of spilled blood and dark rain. The broken remains of what walls had encased the now open room remained like bony fingers grasping the summit in a crushing grip.

Only then, did Amaranth hear the chuckling above them.

As one, the four knights turned around to face their foe, to find a single blood knight, helm on his lap, sitting on a crumbled arc of stone that had once coroneted the steps to the summit. It was a single Blood Knight, seated on the ruined arc, eyeing them with a predatory gleam and faked boringness. Its armor was bulkier than that of its fellows, more ornate and of a more demonic glint. His face had once been noble, although never kind, but now that nobility had morphed into predatory lines, a hunter made man.

'Ah, little mortals and your little minds. Always thinking of new inventive threats from whom to run into the night crying.' Recognition flashed both in his eyes, and the knight of the Dawning Dragon. The vampire cooked his head to theside with an amused smile, while the Knight of the Dawning Dragon´s knuckles turned white under the armored gauntlets.

'The Dragonhearted… I thought Zarkandil had dealt with you back in your little island…. How are you here?' Asked the vampire, leaning forwards, and licking his fangs. The knight let out a humorless chuckle.

'Her benediction and her humor it seems.' He said in a slow tone.

'Humor?' The vampire blinked in surprise and mild confusion. The Knight´s tone was pure fire, his next words carrying a promise of violence.

'Yes, she will certainly smile when she sees me rip tear your jaw from your face and shove my fist down your throat, you whoreson of a traitor.' Snarled Amaranth, his blade erupting into golden flames. The smile on the vampire´s face froze for a moment, before becoming a guarded look of hate.

'You know him, my lord?' Asked Loui, as he lifted his own weapon.

'Once I believed I did. I was wrong.' Amaranth said in a dry tone.

'Oh, don't be so glum, old friend.' Said the vampire, his own tone dry and brimming with hatred 'After all, you are about to be witness to the rebirth of the End of both our little homelands… In death and blood.'

That sent shivers down Amaranth´s back. It felt too foreboding to be a simple threat. Every instinct in his body roared one thing.

Danger

'Can't you see the battle is lost, vampire? Your forces are being routed as we speak. Our King and the Emperor rush here to stop you, at the head of a hundred heroes of the world. The Heir of Anerion, the Slayer King of Karak Kadrim, the Sisters of Twilight and many more. It ends here.' Declared Beubouron, his own armor shining white like a falling star.

'Oh, it does. You acted perfectly to my Lord´s plans… So many lives and souls to gorge us with… A fine gift. It won't buy you survival, though.' Spoke the vampire knight, taking his weapons, a maul and an axe, covered in horrible runes that hurt to even look at.

'Manfred Von Carstein is dead.' Amaranth said in a slow and steely tone 'My wife´s lance made sure of it. There was nothing left of that abomination.'

The smile on the Blood Knight´s face sent a shiver down his back. He looked like a wolf that had just cornered his prey. And Amaranth felt just like that.

'And who said I was acting under Von Carstein´s orders?' He drawled the phrase one, smiling all the way

'His vampires were on Avalon. I killed them myself!' Amaranth declared, disbelief plastered on his face, and none needed to see it to know. The vampire laughed at that, nodding, his smile stretching even more, as impossible as it seemed. And then another voice, one that made every hair in Amaranth´s body stand on edge, spoke.

'And we thank you for that, Knight of Wrath. They were pesky annoyances I would have to deal with sooner or later.' Another figure stepped into the light, or more precisely, steeped from the darkness that had hit it, at the other side of the coffin. He was tall, with black hair of the same feel as old bat skin, eyes of a gleaming red and white eyeing them in his baroque armor of a knightly order long lost to time, nobility and decency.

'My master.' Spoke the first of the vampires, bowing deeply his head.

'Walach fucking Harkon,' Breathed Loui 'That explains much. You bloodsucking bastard…'

The Knight of the Dawning Dragon´s mind was reeling from the revelation. Walach was here, walking and confident on a victory that by no right should he expect to obtain. Why? He wasn't a fool or an ego-driven maniac like the other vampire in the summit. There was no way he could expect to beat so many warriors of such caliber. It would have been a challenge even for…

'No…' He whispered, eyes widening in horror at the mere idea, as he turned to look at the coffin with undiminished shock 'It can't be….'

The shape, the age of such a baroque creation, it fit his theory too well for his liking. He prayed he was wrong, he prayed he wasn't even remotely close to the truth. Harkon laughed a somber laugh that grew into a victorious, maddening cackle. That was all the confirmation he needed.

'He is bright; indeed. You were not wrong disciple.' Said the Lord of the Blood Dragons between laughs. The other man smiled viciously, hatred blossoming in his crimson eyes. Oh, how much he had waited for such a moment, such an instant to see the proud bretonnian despair.

'Lord Amaranth?' Asked Lilliane. But he wasn't listening, and he was barely thinking. Energy roared in his hands like liquid fire as he pulled back to do something, cast a spell, throw his blade, anything. But it was far too late for any of that. It was a brave attempt, even as a cry escaped his lips, but futile nonetheless.

'NO!'

And the maelstrom of souls ended, like the very sky crashing down upon it, power to fuel a city into undead, flying to one single individual, one single spirit, dormant and defeated… To be awakened in the right way. The aftershock of Magic drove everyone in the summit to their knees. Right as the dust began to dissipate, and a horrible sound, of a millenary coffin opening, did Amaranth hear the sound of flapping wings and magic translocation. He could feel Walach smiling, he could feel the dread turning into a pit in his insides… This was probably the world´s more dangerous and carefully laid trap. And they had jumped head first into it.

'Not proper of you to be on your knees, Amar-Aranth.' As the dust cleared, Sunfang came into view, shimmering with inner fire, the furious spirits of fire and as stored inside the blade letting their anger bare, shining fire against the black steel of the blade. Tyrion was a towering figure in decorated asur armor, blue and golden; his decorated high helm contrasted the very sky. The armor of Aenarion seemed indestructible against the purple light of the Wind of Death. And yet the Grail Knight felt no reassurance.

'Disciple.' The other voice he knew well. It had instructed him in harnessing the Winds back during the campaign in Ulthuan. The High Loremaster of Hoeth, on his head, was the horned-moon helm of Saphery, cast an imposing figure, not by his stature of physical strength, but by how magic obeyed his every command, dangling to him like the winds of summer. Magic poured into the Grail Knight healing wounds and mending the damage. It was not much, not in such a quick moment, but it was enough for the knight of the Dawning Dragon to stand to his feet.

'I expected Von Carstein´s minions. I´ll be content with killing another traitor like you, Wallach.' Any other day, Amaranth would have made a comment about the Emperor´s beaked helmet, but at that moment, he was more than happy to see the rekilander by his side, the hammer of Sigmar himself held firmly in battle-forged hands. As much strife as there was between both men, when humanity was in peril, nothing would stop them, not even their pitiful enmities.

'Hmm, this will prove no chance for a worthy death, indeed.' The Slayer King stood like a figure brought from magma and fire, entombed in granite and steel. Wearing a heavy set of dwarven armor, and armed with the Axe of Dargo, Ungrim Ironfist strode forth, eyes glowing with promised vengeance for many a grudge, red hair towering like a banner to the wind.

'My child! Are you wounded?' This voice brought comfort no one else could manage to bring, a promise of safety and calm that was almost instantly shattered by the idea running through his mind. The Lionhearted held his shoulder, examining him up and down, eyes of the richest of brown watching with care, before smiling, reassuringly. Any other time or day, that alone would have steeled his resolve and made him smile. But today was not such a day.

'Get out of here! All of you! NOW!' He roared getting up, and trying to push them off the summit. But it was as futile as the actions of a sparrow against a tempest. With the shine of freshly spilled blood, the wards the vampire had crafted into the summit activated, and magical walls shut down around them, tinting all in crimson.

Only then, did they hear the sound of the coffin's top hitting the ground

'Too late…' Whispered Harkon, smiling like a predator that tasted fresh blood.

{DRAGON OF STARFALL}

'ROBERT!' Eddard roared in a tone he had not used since the war. Half of him didn't expect his friend to react, but the urgency and fear in his voice seemed to pass the veil of drunkenness that surrounded the King´s mind. Robert Baratheon rose from his seat, eyes focusing on his old friend, catching the fear in his eyes, before turning towards what he was pointing, and what his family was staring at. For a moment, he did not see the black point, until it became a sphere, floating in the air.

'KINGSGUARD, TO YOUR KING!' He bellowed. And several things happened simultaneously. Ser Barristan and Jaime rushed to their lord, and every knight disengaged each other, as the king´s order had, somehow, cut through the roaring of the tournament. Every knight advanced to their lords and ladies, not knowing what was happening. Oberyn and his daughters formed around Doran, the son of the latter drew steel. The Captain of his guard, Areo Hotah drew his axe and formed a wall in front of his lord with the Dornish knights that formed around him.

The Hound took a step forward, as Dayne and Dragostone knights advanced to their liege, drawing swords and raising shields. Arthur followed suit, taking with his father his mother´s side, as little Shireen hugged her mother tightly. Stannis seemed unfazed, even as he drew his own sword, and ordered defensive positions to his men. Both Berric and Thoros rushed to their lord´s side. Davos and his son prepared for a fight. Darkstar didn't even bother to go to his kin´s aid. He grasped his blade tighter still and prepared for whatever was about to happen, as a wave of dread washed over everyone in the field.

Tywin gave a single command, as both he and his son were surrounded by gilded steel, gold, and ruby red of the Lannister knights, while Devan rallied what westerladners were still ready for a fight. The Mountain grunted, before grabbing his greatsword and simply waited, like a good guard dog, beside the Lord of Casterly Rock.

Loras was already running toward his family, as Renly advanced in between his soldiers to stand beside the Tyrells. Margaery and her mother and grandmother were helping Willas up, as Garlan rallied the Reachmen for a fight.

{DRAGON OF STARFALL}

It got up, his armor the color of blood spilled long ago. His helm was off, and shining black hair cut short over military features formed like spilled tar around his head. This was a soldier, a warrior, and little else. His eyes were red, like most other vampires, but his had a tint of red that he had never seen in any other vampire till that moment. He stood, scanning with surrounding carefully. His gaze fell on each one of them, before resting on Walach Harkon himself. Amaranth noted the last Blood Dragon was kneeling.

The mysterious warrior´s frame was stout and powerful, and his pale skin made little to hide that once, he had been a beautiful man. Once, at the very least. His armor was segmented and heavy, from another era, and yet it incorporated designs from earlier times of the Empire and Bretonnia, and his helm, which rested hung from his belt, was coroneted by three skulls upon which a dragon reared ferociously. He oozed danger, and his pose was one of a skilled swordsman, even without his blade in hand. His mere pose was as if someone had stitched masterfully together fragments of history thousands of years apart, taking the best from every era and sown it in a single, whole piece.

He regarded them with veiled curiosity until he finally spoke.

'I would be fooled to think it's you, old friend.' His voice was powerful, yet soft at the same time. Where all of them had been used to the sickening sweetness or downright brutality of most vampire´s tone, this one´s was calmer, almost honest. It took a moment for Amaranth to realize he was talking to his father. He instantly walked in between them, blade gripped tight. He knew who it was. As much as he would take any other foe in the world, he knew who, and what was in front of him.

'He is not who you expect, Lord of Blood.' Said the knight. The vampire eyed him curiously, eyes shining in an unsettling manner. It took him a moment to see that it was mirth.

'You seem to be the only one who knows who I am' He spoke scanning him up and down with measured looks. He instantly changed posture and guard, not wanting the vampire to guess what form of swordsmanship he was employing. The vampire smiled at that.

'And what makes you think that, vampire?' Asked the Emperor, frowning, hands gripping Ghal Marz tightly.

'He is the only one afraid here.' He stated casually, glancing around, before looking at him right into his eyes, even though his helm. Such was the intensity of its piercing gaze. 'And yet, you are the first to bear steel against me, child…. No.'

He stopped, sniffing the air in a dignified manner that made him reassemble a proud and regal hunter, before smiling down at him, joy sparking into his eyes

'You are no child, you smell young, and yet, I can see in you much experience, and a thousand scars…' Another pause followed, and a wide grin, slightly disturbing, shone, the fang bared for them to see. 'You are one of Her knights, are you not? All of you three too.'

He pointed at all his companions, the other three Grail Knights keeping their guard up. And then he eyed the Royarch once again.

'But you, you wear the Crown of Bretonnia… You are not him, but you must be of his blood, then.' A chuckle, not malicious in any way, to their surprise, escaped the vampire. 'That headstrong fool actually managed to create the Kingdom he wanted, did he?'

'You are speaking…. of Gilles le Breton,' Spoke the Emperor slowly. 'Who are you?'

'He has many names. Lord of Blood, Wanderer, Blade Immortal…' Spoke Lord Amaranth, edging into his stance more, feet planted against the ground, placing even more weight on his heels for an attack.

'You know me well, lad. And you do not carry my old friend´s blood, yet, you shine as bright as he did.' Another chuckle escaped him. The sound was starting to make amaranth nervous. The sound felt alien coming from a vampire. 'Not that your lord father´s shine is any less, but he looks like Gilles in many ways.'

The next look he gave the amber-clad knight was almost hungry.

'But only in you, I see that fury in your eyes. It's good to see that shine once again.' The Knight of the Dawning Dragon edged into a combat pose. That had felt more like a threat than anything spoken before.

'Those names…' Tyrion said, eying his twin carefully. 'Is that…?'

'The Lord of the Blood Dragons, first of the line. Abhorash of Lahmia.' Teclis confirmed grimly.

'There is no Lahmia anymore.' Said the Lord of Blood sharply, growling to himself, before turning to the other vampires in the summit 'Walach?'

'My master.' He kneeled, face glistening with elation 'It's good to see you stand among us once more.'

'If that is the Abhorash of legend, just what in the Lady´s Gardens did it take to beat him into that coffin?' Whispered Loui. The Lord of Blood chuckled at that, closing his eyes for a moment before a frown made its way into his face.

'Hmmm…. I can´t remember what beat me, Knight of the Grail. All I remember is… Magic, daggers and… shadows,' He stopped for a second, growling. 'Hmm… I smell her blood in this'

'Indeed master. Both hers, and mine as well.' That made everyone in the summit turn towards Walach, most in confusion, some in understanding, and one, in cold ire.

'If you wanted to test yourself against me, Harkon, then you should have done so honorably, as the Creed of our line demands!' Growled the Lord of Blood, grabbing his blade from the coffin and slamming it into the ground. It was a wicked sword, of dark iron, although if it was because the material itself was dark, or because of the centuries of spilled blood, none of them could tell.

'I would have failed, master. And I could not fail.' Walach´s tone had changed into a tranquil mask of determined pride. It was not something normal in the face of such a vampire. It even made Abhorash slow down for an instant.

'Explain.' He growled. And Walach, in a display of utter foolishness, dauntless pride, or blind courage, laughed at that.

'No, I do not think I will,' He said chuckling, before making a lazy gesture toward those whose hearts still beat. 'Now, master, please, kill them all.'

The sound of weapons cutting the air and crackling magic was heard as every warrior of Order prepared itself for combat. The Lionhearted formed shoulder to shoulder with his son, as the three Grail Knights formed around their lieges. The Emperor joined them, although he stayed behind them, knowing full well that among the warriors on that summit, baring Lord Teclis, he was the least skilled warrior. And that just spoke of the volume of the combatants.

Tyrion instantly moved in front of his twin, as Teclis´s magic crackled into life, powerful, pure, and clean magic harnessing around his now intimidating form, both Sunfang and the Sword of Teclis shining with inner energies. The Slayer King stood alone, uncaring. He was here to kill and die, not to make political arrangements.

'Oh, this is a good death, indeed.' Said eagerly the Slayer King, a slightly blood-crazed tone in his words. The Lord of Blood on his part looked between offended, surprised, impressed and suspicious.

'Have you been infected by the diseases of the Rotting God, Wallach? You do not get to order me, and you do not get to kill the blood of Gilles. I will no…'

Harkon´s smile was a good warning, but it came far too late. Like snaking vines, tendrils of purple magic erupted from the coffin, grabbing the Vampire lord by his arms, legs, and very soul, ripping, tearing, subduing, as purple light bathed everything in the Wind of Death. Teclis was fast, shielding them from the aftermath of the powerful spell that had been unleashed, and that not even he fully understood. Abhorash´s skin was alight with phantom light, as the vines of power made their way all through his being. The vampire roared an unholy sound of broken defiance and shattered resilience, as it tried to fight off whatever was happening to him. He was failing, as the ground cracked, his body trembling with effort, and a horrible and sumptuous laughter echoed into the summit. The blood-erected wards flickered and died under the unleashed magical outburst. In that horrible moment, all of them instantly understood why such a quantity of souls had been employed. They hadn't been used to empower the Vampire.

But to enslave it.

'Hoeth give us strength.' Teclis whispered, pale.

'The only thing that will give us strength now elgi, is our own arms. Prepare to use them.' Said the Slayer King.

'Lady, lend us strength.' Whispered Beubouront.

'She cannot hear you up here, horse-lover.' Cackled the unnamed Blood Dragon.

'I forgot to mention master, that in these many centuries, I have dabbled in a great deal of research. It took me many centuries, souls and assistance to be able to prepare this little invention. Thousands of souls used against a single, weakened vampire. It will not rob you of your free will entirely, but this spell shackled you to my orders, as much as it empowers you' Wallach explained, smiling as the light solidified under Abhorash´s veins. The smile was far too big for any normal face.

'W….WHY, WALACH?!' Roared the vampire as he tried to fight off the curse, and failed. Wallach's face turned into a murderous look of hatred, his voice seething in disgust and betrayal.

'Why? For centuries you left us, you watched us die and be hunted, let us to our thirst and suffer,ing uncaring. You dangled that promise of "worthiness" to keep us chained to your ideas, while your thirst was sated! You watched us, like foiled experiments, useless and devoid of worth now. But no more! I have been shown that you are the unworthy one, you are the one that lacks the strength to do what is needed!' He roared, in a manner of a betrayed son, or one who saw himself as such. Abhorash fought to stand from his knees, while also answering the accusations leveled against him.

'YOU FOOL! YOU ARE PLAYING INTO HER TRAP!' He tried to make his pupil listen. There was an edge of desperation in his eyes, but something else, something the Knight of the Dawning Sun knew. Hurt, betrayal, a sensation of having failed. To Abhorash´s perception, he had failed Wallach as much as the Lord of the Blood Keep had failed him.

'Who´s trap?' Tyrion asked, frowning at that.

'The Queen of Mysteries, I would presume.' Amaranth answered the Prince of Cothique. The Heri of Aenarion glanced at him, nodding slightly at the answer.

'That whore, Neferata,' Growled the Slayer king. 'Not even among their own kind, these bloodsucking bastards show any loyalty or honor.'

Abhorash fought tooth and nail to resist the effects of the curse, but it was a futile attempt at defiance. A noble one, but futile still.

'Why Wallach? Betrayal? Dishonor? You abandon all I taught you for a chance at petty revenge?!'

'PETTY?! CENTURIES! CENTURIES, YOU OLD BASTARD! You abandoned us to a World that wanted us dead and gone! And you dare to tell me, that I have abandoned your teachings?! You abandoned them yourself, curing your curse and letting us suffer alone, under the stars. We were alone. We were worthy! Powerful, skilled, ambitious and merciless. Perfect soldiers, perfect warriors, and you discarded us like broken swords! YOU ARE THE ONE WITHOUT HONOR!'

Whatever pity, whatever fondness the old vampire had had for his disciple burned in the flames of hatred that the Lord of Blood ignited in his undead heart. Abhorash was honor, he was duty and dedication. He was a warrior and a knight before anything else. The insults he had been the object of were much more than he could forgive. All he was, all he had been for the last millennia, had been tarnished. He would not stand for that.

'Don't you understand?! I didn´t return exactly because of this! You are a disgrace, you and your entire order! You are no better than Neferata´s conniving whores or Ushoran´s mongrels! If I haven´t come for you, you rotten-blooded bastard, is because YOU. ARE. UNWHORTHY!'

'Unworthy?! I have slaughtered some of the greatest champions in this world! Shed blood in quantities unimaginable! And you think me unworthy?! You deluded fo….!'

'YES! I taught you what honor meant, what duty meant! Restraint, control, justice! Those are the qualities I sought in you! Not mindless slaughter, you bloodthirsty animal!'

'You squandered your gifts!'

'And you relished this curse beyond any control!' Abhorash roared. Wallach laughed bitterly, opening his arms wide, basking in the purple light of the dying sky, as if killing something like the heavens themselves brought him no small amount of joy.

'CURSE?! This is a gift! Power beyond compare, youth, strength, and speed that goes above any other being in this world! If this is a curse to you, Master, then you really are as deluded as she told me. But enough words. Kill them. Now.' He spat, pointing at the living, The Lord of Blood used all his willpower to stand his ground, to refrain from slaughter. It was an unstoppable force again an almost immovable object.

Almost.

'I am no one´s pet! NOT ANYMORE!' Roared the vampire, with such raw hate in his voice that even the Grail Knights had to take a step back in shock. The Vampire fought with every inch of willpower and fury at his disposal to resist.

'RAAAARGH!' The sound was not of a mortal throat, but the roar of a wounded dragon, trying his hardest to stand back, to fight back, to resist. He was failing, but he kept trying, like a lion being crushed by the weight of an avalanche, royal even when bloodied, mighty even when facing the impossible. He would not betray his promise to Gilles. He would not betray his friendship, his faith, and his last requests. He was better than that. He had become better than that.

'Useless, dear master. Nefererata made this spell just for you.' Wallach explained, smiling hatefully.

'I…. WILL…. NOT…. BETRAY….. MY…. OATH!' There was a vehemence, ad nobility in those words that turned around Amaranth's perception of the vampire entirely. Even when faced with impossible odds, even when pushed to do what he enjoyed by the will of another, he remained true to his vows, to his ideals, and beliefs. There was honor there, there was true chivalry.

'And I never said you had an option, dear master.' Said Wallach triumphantly.

With the unholy roar of that of a desperate and heartbroken beast, Abhorash, First and Only Lord of the Blood Dragons leaped at them.